Angel: Private Eye Book Two

Summary

So, she's an angel, apparently.

Lizzie is still reeling from the fight with Van Edgerton, but there's no time to rest. People are disappearing in Hope City, and there's every possibility a magical serial killer is behind the attacks.

As for Benson, she has no idea where she stands with him. He wants to keep her on a leash, but she keeps breaking it.

From werewolves to creepy priests, Lizzie has to survive the back streets of Hope City and solve a string of grisly murders before it's too late.

Worse - she needs to survive Benson with all his infuriating but infatuating charm and arrogance.

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Angel - Odette C. Bell

Two

Chapter 1

So, apparently I was an angel. And, equally as apparently, my life would never be the same.

It was the next morning after my frankly frightful ordeal. I’d spent the night tossing and turning in my bed, chased by that same dream. Except, it was different now. Different because I knew one harrowing fact. If I gathered the gumption to turn around and face the light that tracked me through my nightmares, it could take control of me, and no casino lobby or shady vampire in the city would be safe.

Suffice to say I was a nervous wreck by the time dear old William Benson deemed to contact me.

I was trying to keep myself busy, trying to be useful, you know, anything and everything to stop my frankly stupid mind from exploding.

I’d even volunteered to help Mr. Marvelous clear out some old case files from one of his numerous file rooms. Sure, this shop was technically large. It was set on three floors and was relatively wide. That allotted space, however, didn’t account for how large it was.

I was constantly finding new rooms. Sometimes right next to my own bedroom. I swore they would pop up in the night like daisies.

Occasionally they’d have eerie red glows filtering out from under the doors, and I would – you guessed it – leave them the hell alone. When I was in a braver, possibly more stupid mood, however, I would venture inside.

This morning, after an appalling sleep as I waited for William Benson to tell me how much was wrong with my life, I found one such storage room. And in a fit of trying to distract myself, I offered Mr. Marvelous to clean it up.

He’d been ecstatic, saying he was relatively sure he’d lost his previous associate in there at some point.

I really wanted that to be a joke, but for all I knew, I would push aside an archive box, only to find a terrified, bearded man subsisting on magical rats and the fumes from the beast that made it up through the holes in the vents.

Really throwing myself into the task, I tied my hair up behind a scarf, wore my dirtiest clothes, and got down to it.

I found absolutely everything you could imagine. From old moldy cups of coffee bought in the 1970s, to what looked like unclaimed checks for sizable amounts of money.

The whole experience confirmed one thing: it wasn’t an act. Mr. Marvelous really was crazy.

But I was starting to learn something else, too. Underneath all that crazy, was a kind heart.

He hadn’t left me alone last night and had rather pottered around in his office the whole time on the premise of catching up with some work. In reality, he’d been checking up on me. And the sweetie had even been so kind as to grab a magical auto magazine and chuck it on the kitchen table, telling me with a suitable amount of awe that I could pick out any advancement charm I wanted for the beast. Even if I wanted to change the blue lightning rims to pink cats.

To be honest – even though I sure as hell wouldn’t tell him this – the beast had really grown on me. There was something suitably comforting about having a car that sounded like a wild bear.

When I was willing to write cleaning the storeroom off, realizing almost everything was junk and could be chucked in the dustbin outside, I stopped. Because I found a file marked cold cases. Almost immediately, before I even reached out a hand and brushed it over the dust-covered cardboard, my stomach clenched.

My whole body felt as if someone had grabbed me from behind, wrapped their arms tightly around my back, and locked me in place.

The reaction was so visceral, it took me several seconds to shake it off.

I had to bite down viciously hard on my bottom lip as I sucked in a tight breath and shifted carefully toward the archive case.

Down on my knee, I was literally in the muck of things, surrounded by a massive pile of old receipts, newspaper clippings, and what looked like love notes from Mr. Marvelous to his car.

It also meant I was magically grounded.

Because yes, like it or not, I was starting to learn much more about this world.

I couldn’t afford to be naive anymore. Naive had resulted in the entire incident with Theodore Van Edgerton. Oh, and the fact I’d been an angel my whole life and hadn’t figured it out until now.

I really hadn’t had any time to adjust to that fact, and as I reminded myself of it, I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, hissed in a breath, and shook my head.

Realizing I needed a distraction, I squeezed my tongue between my teeth, and gathered the gumption to open the archive box.

Zing. Almost immediately I released what felt like a tornado of magic. Though you couldn’t see it, and there were no sparks surging into the air and causing the dust clouds to crackle into flame, it was there. Every tight shiver that ran down my back, every pulsing beat that ripped through my heart, and every nervous twang that jolted up my spine. They all told me powerful magic had been building in that box for years.

It was so strong, my teeth started to jitter in my head.

Still, according to chapter 48 of the Grim’s Magical Work Field Book – the same massive folder Mr. Marvelous had told me to read – you could protect yourself from excessive magic by grounding yourself. It was a little similar to the principle of grounding yourself against electrical discharge. You had to keep both your feet firmly planted on the ground, or your knees, preferably. Or, if a situation dictated, you could lie down for maximum benefit.

I waited for the excessive magic to discharge, dart down my body, shift into the dusty floorboards, and head back to the earth below.

It didn’t happen as quickly as I’d like, and my teeth continued to jitter harder and harder until I said, Oh, sod it, and I lay down on my back, squeezing my eye shut until the sparks went away.

If I hadn’t been so concerned with chasing the excessive magic from my body, I would have heard the slight creak as someone opened the door. Heard the rustle of expensive fabric, and, you know, the fact that someone was standing above me.

You aren’t dead, are you? I admit that would be somewhat disappointing now we know what you are.

I jolted. Oh boy, did I jolt. I shot into the sky like a rocket fired by NASA.

I shifted back, shoulders slamming into an already precarious set of metal shelves behind me.

I hit the shelves so hard, several boxes ominously rattled from above. Before they could slip forward, knock me on the noggin, and kill me approximately 12 hours after I found out I was an angel, Benson leaned forward, locked a hand on the shelves, and the quaking stopped.

At least, it stopped out there. The shaking in my heart – oh, that just began.

How come I’d never noticed how shockingly, alluringly blue Benson’s eyes were? How come I’d never noticed how he took your attention and held it like he was cradling it in his hands?

Benson slowly arched an eyebrow and finally shifted back, his strong grip around the shelf no longer needed.

He took several polite steps back, scratched at his jaw idly, and smiled.

Was it just me, or was that smile different? You know, the kind of smile you would give an angel, not the irritating buffoon of a lady you kept saving from ridiculous situations.

Do you like it down there? he asked conversationally as he appeared to give the floor a once over, Or would you prefer to come up here so we can finally have our conversation?

I won’t tell you exactly what my back, cheeks, and tummy did on the words our conversation. I would, however, share that I made the most stupid most unprofessional squeak in the world.

I didn’t shift quickly enough. He slowly arched another eyebrow. I can, of course, come down there, if you prefer.

I shot to my feet. It was a little like somebody ignited a firecracker underneath me.

Locking a hand on the shelf to steady myself, I cleared my throat and tried to straighten my top. That, of course, is when I remembered I was wearing my frumpy, dingy, dirty hoody and pants.

I offered him a half smile, half wince.

He… oh, William Benson looked at me like it was the first time he’d ever set eyes on me. His roving gaze shifted from left to right and up and down, as if he wanted to remember every single feature and proportion.

I cleared my throat.

It was an invitation to stop. You know, show a little decency.

He didn’t.

So I cleared my throat again.

This time it got his attention.

Ah, what are you doing? I know I’m in frumpy clothes, I began, bashfully.

It’s not your clothes, it’s you, he said directly.

Before my heart could do a somersault and land somewhere near the back of my legs, he cleared his throat. His eyes locked somewhere on the top of my head. Before I knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and gently pried back several strands from my bun.

I was well beyond squeaking now. I was frozen. You guessed it, like a mouse.

He appeared to scrutinize those several strands of my hair until he finally stepped back, reinstating our personal space. You’re changing, then. I assumed it would happen fast, considering your considerable display of power last night.

If there was anything that could tug my mind off the fact William Benson was playing with my hair, it was this.

What? My voice shook so badly in my throat it was like I was trying to swallow my words.

You’re changing, Lizzie.

The quality behind his gaze was almost enough to make me forget the rather important fact that William Benson had called me Lizzie. The same William Benson who’d told me several days ago that he wouldn’t dare use my first name, because it was too informal.

So what did this mean, exactly?

Was our relationship changing?

Your hair is turning white, he suddenly commented as he returned his hands to his pockets.

At first, I laughed, almost dismissively. Then I brought up several fingers, captured a few loose strands, and looked at them.

Holy crap, he was right. I had white strands. I was going gray!

Before I could keel over, Benson picked up one of the strands of my hair that had fallen loose and tumbled to the floor.

He looked over it with a careful eye, before pushing it into his jacket pocket.

I blinked quickly. Ah, what are you going to do with that?

Tests, he said simply.

I made a face. You mean I need more tests? I thought you already knew what I was.

He shrugged but didn’t give me my hair back.

He did, however, cast his glance down to the open archive box by my feet.

You’re brave. Benson angled his head toward the open archive box beside me.

I ticked my head toward it, eyes still stupidly wide. Ah, what do you mean?

He shot me a look I was now all too familiar with – the one that told me I was a real idiot who had no business sticking her nose in this magical world.

Or wings, considering what I really was.

Though I tried to hide it, I shook a little, drawing my arms up and locking them tightly around my shoulders as if I was cold.

Benson noticed. Heck, William Benson noticed everything. Not only had he been around for god knows how many centuries, but that cold, direct, steely blue gaze was like a net he could track across a scene and capture you in.

He paused, eyes flicking over me before they settled on my face. Considering what you are, he said in a careful voice, eyes actually sparkling, I wouldn’t expose yourself to too much errant magic.

I frowned. And waited. You know, for Benson to explain everything like he promised to do.

… Nothing. He just kept looking at me.

I brought a hand up and tried to fumble through the knot that was my hair in the stupid hope I could make it sit neatly. I also looked at him carefully, surreptitiously from under my fringe. And what am I, Benson?

Really? Have you already forgotten last night? Where you blazed through Van Edgerton’s spells and—

I haven’t forgotten last night, I interrupted immediately, really not wanting Benson to rehash every detail. Just the mere mention of the word blaze was enough to set my teeth on edge.

Benson looked at me again. Steadily. Then he pushed out a hand.

It hovered there, right in front of my face.

I, of course, stared at it. Ah, what’s this?

He chuckled. There was something so endearingly light and charming about one of Benson’s chuckles. It put you in mind of a gentle warm breeze pushing through the trees and playing fondly with the tips of your hair. It’s a hand, Lizzie. And an offer, his voice dipped down low.

My eyes shot up to his as my stomach kicked with such nerves I was sure they would soar high into the air and take me into outer space. What?

I rather think it’s time we head back to my office, and we discuss your future.

My future? Every muscle in my stomach clenched so hard I was dead certain I was about to crumple over and curl up on the floor.

He kept his hand out. You didn’t think everything would be the same now, did you? There was a playful, teasing note to his voice, his look, too. But, oh gosh, there was something more – a single note of gravitas. Of import. You know, just enough to confirm that, yes, he was right – nothing would ever be the same again.

For a second, I went all light headed. Realizing it would be a pretty terrible idea to swoon in front of the vampire king, I took a steadying step back, shored my shoulders against the shelf behind, and drove a relaxing breath deep into my belly.

His hand was still in the air. You’re an angel, Elizabeth Luck, don’t you think it’s time you come out of this dusty room and into the light?

Oh crap. My head really did start to spin at that offer. My mouth became as dry as the Sahara, too. It was a miracle I managed to scrounge the muscular control to part my lips with a wobble. I… I… ah… an angel? So it wasn’t… it wasn’t some kind of accident?

You grew wings, Elizabeth, that rarely happens accidentally.

Oh god. Reality slammed into me with all the force of a freight train strapped to a rocket. I crumpled further against the shelves, my shoulder slamming against one of the loose archive boxes behind me.

Before I knew it, I’d dislodged it, and it sailed down and slammed onto my foot.

I yelped, shoved to the side, and pretty much slammed against Benson.

Benson, being the smooth vampire he was, simply slipped a hand around my back, pivoted, and turned me around until I stood safely on the other side of him.

For about a second, I looked up into his perfect face, pretty much undone by the fact his strong hand was still tucked against my back.

Every detail – oh hell, I noticed every fine detail. From the tight, strong tug of his lips, to the exact perfect angle of his jaw.

… Then I remembered a whole archive box had just fallen on my foot.

I yelped again, jerking the injured foot up and hopping madly.

Benson took a step back to reinstate his personal space, as he always did whenever we drew close. But was it just me, or did it take longer this time? Did he spend just a few more seconds looking down into my eyes…?

Benson tugged a hand up and wiped a non-existent speck of dust off his perfect, pressed blue pinstripe suit. You aren’t very lucky, are you, Elizabeth.

Gritting my teeth as I wrapped a hand around my injured foot, I nodded. Maybe I could have lied – shook my head and told him I was the luckiest damn girl alive. But Benson had known me long enough to appreciate that if anything could go wrong around me, it would.

Case in point: my foot throbbed, and as I drew my hand back, I realized the corner of the archive box had gouged a hole in the top of the skin.

There were a few specks of blood on my fingers.

Benson saw them. He saw them, because in that moment, for some reason, a strike of light filtered in from somewhere and lit up my hand like a stage-light.

Benson did not take the opportunity to lick his chops and draw out his fangs. Instead, he took several large and deliberate steps backward.

I swiveled my head to stare at him. Are you okay?

I suggest you attend to your injuries. When you are done, meet me in the corridor. He took another pointed step backward and turned. When he was a safe distance away, he drew a handkerchief from his lapel pocket and tossed it to me.

It fluttered down by my feet.

Specifically, it covered one of the many dusty manila folders that had fallen from the archive box and were now scattered across every section of the floor.

… Something about the folder caught my attention, riveted it to the spot as if a construction crew suddenly sprang forth and soldered my eyes onto that dusty, old, yellowed cardboard.

I knew my expression became pressured, my cheeks slack but the skin around my eyes crumpled as I leaned forward, forgot about the handkerchief, and plucked up the folder instead.

Reverently.

I could feel something coming off it. And it wasn’t just magic. It was a sense… a sense that the folder was important somehow.

I opened it, not caring that a few flecks of my blood still covering my finger transferred over the cardboard.

Before I knew what was happening, Benson was beside me. He leaned down in one smooth, snapped movement, grabbed up his handkerchief, and used it to protect his hand as he grabbed the folder from me.

A picture flew out of the folder and fell at my feet. As my gaze snapped down toward it, Benson stepped in, hiding the photo with his shoe.

That also meant he stepped so close, he almost pressed up against me.

For a second he didn’t move, just watched me. Then, with a deep breath, he shifted back, keeping his shoe over the photo and dragging it across the floor with him.

When he was sufficiently far back that I could catch my breath, I blinked in stunned amazement. Ah, what was that? What are you doing?

Benson held the file very carefully, his handkerchief wrapped around his hand so not a millimeter of his skin touched the cardboard. He looked at me pointedly. I see you’re just the same as ever.

I blinked again, but this time not with the pleasant memory of Benson pressed close.

He was being rude. The smooth vampire had switched right back into the arrogant jerk who’d bullied me into signing a contract with him.

I crossed my arms. And what exactly is that supposed to mean?

Carefully, with his eyes always locked on me, Benson got down to his knee, plucked up the photo, and – keeping the back to me at all times – tucked it back in the folder.

Without bothering to answer me, he proceeded to clean the manila folder of every speck of my blood.

Don’t ask me how he did it – he only had that white silk handkerchief with his monogram embroidered in the corner. You couldn’t wipe blood off cardboard and paper – it would leave a stain.

It didn’t. With a few swipes, it was clean. And, apparently satisfied, Benson pocketed the handkerchief and finally returned his attention on me. Why is it, Elizabeth, that you always seem to know just how to get yourself into trouble?

My arms were still crossed, my lips drawn into a pouty frown. And what the Hell is that supposed to mean?

That, of all the cold case files you could have found in this frankly deplorable and dusty store room, it had to be this one. He gestured to the manila folder but did not let it go. In fact, he held it tightly and securely under one arm. Even if someone had attached a tow chain to it, they would not have been able to liberate it from his grip.